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Destination Doha: 2011

We follow legendary Astran driver Roger “Rabbit” Gool as he journeys from London to Doha following the tyre tracks of the Middle-East long-haul pioneers

Words / Images: Roger “Rabbit” Gool Day 1 (Sunday)

I’m woken up by next door’s cat wailing its head off outside my bedroom window at 6.00am. It’s time to get up and pack. I throw some clothes and bedding into cases and sort my documents for the trip.

I’ve arranged to meet Astran boss Kevin Letham at midday to pick up the paperwork, carnets and running money.

When I get there, I ind that Steve Houlding, Phil McEverley, and Darren Eiffurt (Daz) are already there – all are old hands at the job. Steve is about to leave. He’s taking a different route to us, so we say our goodbyes and arrange to meet him in Syria.

All four trucks belong to Graham Ball (aka the Sultan) of East West Transport, Doha, Qatar. The three of us have to collect our trailers from a yard in Belgium, so we set off for Dover and the P&O ferry. I’m in a Volvo FH.

We change our good ol’ British pounds into euros on the ferry, causing a long queue behind us, as we had to change up a lot of cash. Then we head for the lounge for our dinner and grab a few tins from the duty free.

Then the ferry docks in Calais. Let the games begin!

We buy just enough derv in France to get us to our friend Bjorn, another Astran subbie, in Belgium, where we will pick up the trailers. It’s late evening by the time we get there.

We fuel up, clip up to our trailers, and I notice that there’s a problem with the yellow air line. Out with the tools already!

We do the short drive to the German border crossing at Aachen. We buy road tax to Geiselwind, which will take us to the end of the shift.

Daz reckons his exhaust has got louder. We have a look, the pipe has come away from the silencer and the clamp is lost. We ind some tin plate, wrap it around, brace the two pipes together and secure it with self tapers and a few other bits and bobs to hold it in place. Job done! Time for a coffee and a snack before leaving for Geiselwind. We have a good run there, only having to stop twice, once to resecure the brace and once for a tacho break. We arrive early in the morning, missing Frankfurt’s Monday morning rush hour. We park up and I decide to inspect those tins we bought on the ferry, and then it’s time for bed.

Day 2 (Monday)

I GET UP AROUND mid-afternoon, and it’s a lovely day. Phil and Daz are still asleep, and I’ve got some time to sort out the cab, put some things away and make it liveable.

I’m spotted by the parking man, who comes over for a chat in English. I pay him a total of €30 for the three trucks. That’s €10 per truck, which includes €3 for the actual parking and €7 to spend in the shop or restaurant. It used to be free, but some Eastern Europeans took the p**s and only used the parking, and not the restaurant.

Phil and Daz get up, and it’s time to sort that clamp on the Mercedes. We visit a local Mercedes dealer and buy a clamp for €23 and we it it ourselves. Job done!

After a shower, I visit the restaurant for my favourite: liver dumpling soup followed by liver, mash and onions. I’m as full as a butcher’s dog. Time for work again.

We buy road tax to Kiefersfelden on the German/ Austrian border as we are going to take the train from Vogle to the top of the Brenner Pass.* We had a good run to the train and booked in with no problems. There’s a 90-minute wait before boarding. *A mountain pass through the Alps along the border between Austria and Italy.

Day 3 (Tuesday)

We get off at the top of the Brenner and run to our loading places. Phil and Daz are loading at the same place, but my collection is at a place next to Lake Como. We agree to meet up the next morning in Ancona, where we will get the ferry to Greece.

I get the trailer loaded with 20 tonnes of pipe fittings and flanges for Saudi Arabia, and find a great little restaurant. A good feed, a few beers and bed. I get up at 10pm after a blinding sleep, and shortly afterwards I set off for Ancona.

Day 4 (Wednesday)

IT’S GREAT TO travel at night, with not too many mad Italian drivers around Milan. Loaded, the truck feels good and handles well. Between the forklift driver and me, it couldn’t have been loaded any better. I ly around Milan and head for Modena.

At Modena, I stop for a coffee and a capri. That’s got nothing to do with cars: it’s a ham, cheese and salad roll, and it’s lovely.

I set off again for the other side of Bologna, but thick fog has reared its ugly head, slowing what trafic there is right down. I see a bad accident on the other side of the motorway that has caused a 1km tailback. I wouldn’t like to be sat at the back of that! I inally arrive at Ancona, and Daz and Phil turn up shortly afterwards. We walk into the port because you have to park outside until your ferry is due.

The Dogana (customs) is very quiet. We push the door open and the agent’s room is full of old cupboards, stacked up to the roof. This doesn’t look good.

Having phoned the agent, we ind that he moved last week to new premises across the road. We walk over and give him our papers, and he warns us that the process is slower than it used to be. We explain that we are booked on the 4.00pm ANEK Lines ferry, and he doesn’t think it’s going to be a problem. It’s time for something to eat.

The agent says he will phone us as soon as the paperwork is ready, but by 3.00pm there is still no call. Has he forgotten about us? At 3.50 the papers are ready, and the others agree to collect them. This is going to be close. The loading master is pointing to his watch, when suddenly Phil and Daz emerge from the ofice, running, and waving the carnets above their heads. The master sees them, gives us the thumbs-up, and lets us on. We are the last ones to board and Daz is still reversing down the boat when the ramp is lifted. It’s a good job that I subbed out the job of running from the customs to the boat, because if I’d done it, we would have missed it!

On board we ind our cabins (one each), get showered and then go for a beer. We have a steak in the à la carte restaurant, but it’s as tough as a bear’s a**e. Off to bed: next stop Greece.

Day 5 (Thursday)

I’M WOKEN EARLY by the cabin master shouting: “Port of Igoumenitsa” . After a shower, I meet the boys in the self-service restaurant for breakfast.

We’ve just discovered that one of Phil’s trailer tyres picked up a bolt in Ancona and needs some air before we can move. We drive off the ferry and park at the terminal building, then head for Super Cargo’s ofice to pay for the ferry. It’s all changed big-style here over the past few years. It used to be a really small port with dingy old buildings, but now it’s a lashy place with all you need in one place.

The road to Saloniki (Thessalonica) is also new. They built a motorway to bypass and cut through the mountains that surround the port. The old road was a hard and dangerous route with winding roads, steep climbs and descents – a no-go for trucks in the winter. Back then you had to land at Patras, further round the coast, to transit Greece. Now it’s all motorway, and it’s as boring as hell, but it knocks about six hours off the old transit route time, and that’s what customers want these days. But it cuts down the long-haul driver’s “fun in the sun” considerably!

But before we can hit the road we need to get the tyre repaired and all the pressures checked. We also need a few frappes.* All sorted and we are on our way again – next stop Saloniki for more frappes and a souvlaki sandwich. Lovely jubbly! We are off again, and it’s motorway and tunnels.

Just before the Greek/Turkish border (Kipi-Ipsala), we stop at Maria’s for coffee and to sort out the papers, putting them in order for the Turkish customs. You don’t want to make any mistakes here as they can cause problems, time and, most importantly, money. Maria’s is a well-known truckstop for Europeans, where in the past many a good night was had by all. But over the last few years, with Eastern Europeans looding the job and them eating and drinking in their cabs to save money, Maria’s has shut down. New owners bought it and turned it into a fast-food place, but we still call it Maria’s.

Before heading for the border, we take on 500 litres of fuel. Derv is more expensive in Turkey, and this is the most you are allowed to take into the country.

All sorted and we set off for the Greek side of the border at Kipi, which will take about an hour. After that we cross a river to reach the Turkish side (Ipsala). In the summer months both borders are swarming with mosquitoes and you get bitten to pieces, leaving you with very bad marks and itching for the rest of the trip.

The Turkish side also takes about an hour and we regroup outside the border before setting off again. The roads in Turkey are uneven and bumpy. After an hour’s driving, we pull over in a place we all know is safe to park. You have to be careful in Turkey because fuel is stolen on a regular basis. A few beers, a meal and bed.

* Greek coffee served with ice.

Day 7 (Saturday)

It’s an early start to get to Cilvegozu on the Turkish/Syrian border. To begin with, we’re on the old roads, but after 100km we hit the motorway and crack on to Pozanti.

We make good time, so stop off at Aladdin’s Cave briely. At this shop, which is open 24/7, you can buy bits and bobs for your truck for small change. A quick coffee, a mooch around the shop and we are on our way to Cilvegozu again. It’s important to get to the border before it opens to beat the queues.

We arrive to ind a 2km trafic jam. Some of the trucks belong to locals, who leave them here and go home. We blast past them and head for the front of the queue, which is three-deep with trucks, all needing to go through one small gate when it opens.

I see the car parking attendant and do a deal with him. He allows us to park for a short while, and gives us a cup of chai.

We now need to get into the queue before the cars start to arrive. Trucks begin to start up and there is a little movement in the queue. I watch carefully, with my engine running. I look over at Phil and Daz who are doing the

Day 6 (Friday)

I’ve just been woken by passing rigid Fords and Bedfords with straight-throw exhausts, screaming their heads off.

That’s how the Turks like them.

After a cup of chai*, we set off towards Istanbul. It’s a short drive on rough roads before we hit the motorway to Istanbul and beyond.

We’ve got pre-paid cards for the tolls and the Bosphorus Bridge – which is the gateway from Europe to Asia – not the Middle East as some drivers used to think.

Istanbul is a 24/7 hustle and bustle town, and it’s always good to leave it behind. After Istanbul, it’s motorway all the way to Ankara.

Although it’s a sunny day, the temperature doesn’t rise above 5°C.

We have a had a good run to Bolu, which is where we used to come off the motorway to rejoin the old road, before winding our way up the mountain. It used to be one lane up and one down, with no centre to divide the two. It was very dangerous as overloaded Turks ran up and down, doing very slow speeds up and flying down sometimes with their brakes on fire. Some never made it down! Now it’s a three-lane job all the way, and then a tunnel cuts the top off. We get over the top and Daz signals for us to pull in. The Mercedes is having problems. It keeps losing all of its gears and going into neutral, and when it does, the trailer brakes stop working. We go to breakfast to plan our next move and to make some calls. Resetting the computer works temporarily, but we really need to get it fixed. We decide to try a place I know near Yeniça on the road to Ankara.In the old days this place would have done the job, but unfortunately they don’t have the right computer to plug into the Mercedes’ diagnostics. We’re going to have to try to make it to Aksaray.

We finally get to Mehmet’s place in Aksaray, where I know they have access to the right computer, but we had to stop a few times on the journey here to reset the computer. Phil has his fuel filter changed and also asks them to look over the whole truck.

They love their job here and all come around to say hello and to ask if we need anything doing. They can – and do – make anything here. We drop our trailers and the boys get stuck in.

Ersian drops by to take Daz to the computer man to sort the Mercedes out, and then Ali appears. Ali makes fuel tanks and trailer boxes, but he used to work at Ersian’s “tank farm” – a well-known place for dropping belly tanks before going into Syria.

You would pick them up on the way home. After the work is done, we clip up to the trailers.

We have a nice meal, a few beers and head straight to bed.

* Turkish tea same. We are just like three Formula 1 drivers on the starting grid. Suddenly the gate opens and the irst few trucks go through. The opportunity is now! I go, and Daz follows, but the movement stops before he’s through, leaving his trailer sticking out a bit.

There’s a lot of shouting and Daz reverses back to where he was parked before. Now I can see the reason. The police have turned up and are going mad because of our queue-jumping! One of them bangs on my door, ordering me to reverse. I deliberately mess up the reversing until they tell me I can stay in the queue! I eventually get through the gate, while Kamel (our agent) waits with Daz and Phil to try and sort things out.

I drive to passport control and the coppers take my passport and tell me to move on, so I go over the weighbridge and park under the customs shed. I start customs formalities (which takes 30 minutes), and then together with another of Kamel’s agents I manage to get my passport back. Ten minutes later I am told to leave quickly because the police want the three of us for jumping the queue. So I drive through no man’s land and past the big queue of trucks going the opposite way. Having found a place to park on the Syrian side I grab my papers and walk to the Wattar Co’s ofice, Astran’s agent in Syria. Steve H is already standing outside, waiting for the ofice to open. Mahmood opens the ofice, and while he prepares our papers for customs we drink tea and talk about the trip so far. All of the Astran drivers have a lot of respect for Mahmood, who runs a great bunch of lads. After an hour or so, Steve and I go for breakfast at the new duty free building, and we notice Phil and Daz in the Syrian queue. Today is going to be a bit of a lazy day as the convoy won’t leave until this evening. While I’m waiting I get a call from my old mate AJ (Alan Jones), a long-time subbie for EST. I’m also a subbie for EST, and am happy to hear that Transam have taken them over. Like Astran, EST are a great mob to work for, and I’ve met some good people and had many a good time with them both. Hopefully, Transam will keep EST rocking and rolling.

After sitting about until mid-afternoon, we get our papers done and make our way through the parking area to get controlled, with a convoy number in the windscreen. We duck and dive through the parked trucks, some of which have been there for weeks and still haven’t got papers.

At control, customs seals the trailer using tilt cords and also seals the ifth-wheel handle so that the trailer can’t be changed. We then park up again, and walk back to pay Mahmood and Wattar for their services. We say our goodbyes until the next time.

At 7.00pm the parked trucks start to move forward and the convoy police tick off each truck from their list, one by one. We peal off in order and climb a small incline to passport control. It’s a good earner for the convoy police who receive a 200 Syrian pounds (about £2) back-hander from every driver (and at times there are between 100 and 200 trucks).

The irst stop in Syria is for fuel, which is nice and cheap. But there is a limit of 200 litres on the exit from Syria to Jordan so you can’t gunnel up.

After fuelling up we head off for Homs, which is a massive holding pound for trucks.

From here the convoys head off at different times to various locations – like Damascus, Iraq, Jordan, Lebanon and Turkey. Today the convoy is a free for all, but they used to have to stay together all the way, stopping at various points to regroup. It used to be a 200-truck race – fun at times, but dangerous.* If you don’t report and stop at Homs, you are in the s**t. We are booked in by our convoy numbers and park up.

After a few hours parked, we hear trucks iring up, and it’s time to go again. And it’s push and shove to the front where the convoy police take a note of our convoy numbers again and relieve us of another £2. We leave the compound and head for Damascus.

After climbing for two hours we reach the summit of Damascus Hill, which is followed by a steep winding drop into the suburbs of the city.

Over the years the transit road has improved consider ably, as has Damascus Hill. There are now two lanes up and two lanes down, but as the Syrians like to drive with their lights on full beam, it’s still dangerous. There’s a continuous stink of truck brakes. This is the last big hill on the route to Doha.

At the bottom of Damascus Hill, I let her go, as the bright lights of Damascus get nearer and the road becomes a three-lane highway. There’s a new road now through Damascus and it’s quick and easy. In the past you had to go through the town, which is busy 24/7, and if there was a road closed you then you had to ind a new way through. I can remember going wrong some years ago and inding myself heading for Lebanon. I ended up in a small housing area that looked just like something out of the bible – it was not a good place to be in the early hours of the morning. Johnny Nev and Carl Strangeway will remember it well, because they were behind me. Carl was on his irst trip and John just followed me thinking that I knew a shortcut. CM readers purchasing either of these titles will be entitled to free postage. Simply call 01473 238200 and quote reference: ‘CM3’ After Damascus, it’s a long and bouncy road for a few hours to Deraa. Approaching the border with Jordan, you ind yourself in a large parking area with arches in the distance. The convoy from Lebanon is already here, waiting for the border to open tomorrow morning. I park up for a few hours sleep. *The convoy system was introduced after a driver took his truck into the centre of Damascus and blew up his vehicle and himself.

Day 8 (Sunday)

It’s 8.00am when the agent knocks on the cab door. Let the games begin!

There are 300 trucks here, all needing to drive through two arches to join the next bottleneck. Nobody is prepared to give an inch. With cabs lurching and a constant sounding of air horns, we finally get through. We go back to show our passports and after about an hour (and more money changing hands) our paperwork is done and we are finished with Syria. Now we’ve got a 1km drive down a one-lane road towards Jordan and another passport control.

We park under the first control shed and then walk past a long line of drivers, politely saying “good morning” as we pass. We get our paperwork in minutes, saving us a lot of time. Now it’s only the weighbridge and x-ray to go before we can give our papers to Mohammed, Astran’s long-time agent at the Ramtha border. A packet of fags for the weigh bridge man and a wink (and a few dollars) to the x-ray operative, and we are directed straight to the front of a large line of trucks waiting to get x-rayed. Without the bribes, it can take a day or more to get x-rayed. Mohammed does the paperwork, and I know from experience that this can take hours, so there’s time for breakfast and a doss down.

I buy a visa for £20, and change my money into Saudi Riyals. Mohammed has sorted the paperwork sooner than expected and we make our way to get a satellite tracker put on the trailers.

Once again we walk directly into the office, ignoring the line of long-faced drivers. Trackers on, we head for the gate, and there’s more argy bargy. Mohammed shows up on his way home, sees that we are blocked in, and he quickly gets the other trucks out of our way by waving his arms violently and making some loud growling noises, which we Brits have all heard before.

We quickly get to the front – he’s done it again! With a thumbs up, we drive out of the border, and are among the last few trucks through before it closes for the night. The Jordanian roads have improved over the years, but “Diesel Alley” is still a bone-shaking road. It might be the shortest transit (it takes just a few hours to cross Jordan), but I have had more blow-outs here than anywhere else in the Middle East.

My old favourite hotel was just outside Azram, but now that trackers are fitted on the trailers it’s out of bounds. Shame! Before reaching the Saudi border, we grab a few ice cold beers from a small bar. Entering the border we get parked at the front, near the exit gate, and start on the beers.

● Destination Doha will be concluded in next week’s Commercial Motor